


The Longest Mile of Nowhere

by Hyenada



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Additional Warnings Also Apply, Character Development, Character Tags and Relationship Tags will be added as the story progresses to avoid spolieranos, F/M, Gen, I'm so sorry for all the tags really I am, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Medical/Recrational Drug Use, M/M, PTSD, Post-Honest Hearts, Pre-Honest Hearts, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Themes, Van Buren Content, Warnings For Themes of A Carnal Nature, Warnings for Bloody Gore, Warnings for Graphic Violence, Warnings for Injury, Warnings for Swearing and Pathetic Non-Pseudo-Fake-Swearing, Warnings for the Fallout Universe in General
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-09 05:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12270066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyenada/pseuds/Hyenada
Summary: Joshua Graham was raised an only child, but he supposes, there are a number of different ways for a man to acquire a brother without bloodties.(or, the events surrounding New Canaan before the war, during the war, and after the war -- through the eyes of two stubborn men with one too many bloody obligations between them)remastered and reuploaded after a stupidly long hiatus.





	1. The Samaritan's Wounded Neighbour

**Author's Note:**

> So my original fic got deleted, not by me, which resulted in a loss of practically everything. Such is why we update our passwords. It's back! And hopefully, far, far better than before.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's been a fool, perhaps, and would  
> Have prospered had he tried,  
> But he was one who never could  
> Pass by the other side.  
> An honest man whom men called soft,  
> While laughing in their sleeves —  
> No doubt in business ways he oft  
> Had fallen amongst thieves."  
> \- Henry Lawson.

## | PART ONE |  
CHAPTER ONE

## 

#### JOSHUA GRAHAM

       He opens his eyes when he feels the immediate distant cool of a show passing over his face. Consciousness rising up from the brink, against the drag of fading mortality, alarmed and fearing.

 Along the waves of heat and distant lines of scrub desert sand, he watched the shade blacken the ground, stretched by the sinking sun. It was evening now. What had been a blinding blue sky before had since softened into a darker, more muted hue. It was a relief, but it also meant that he had been collapsed here for some time. Hours. Exactly how many, he does not know. Too many, too long.

 His first thought is an uncertain one. For a moment, he is sure he might be seeing things, a creation of his witless inner mind -- yet, despite his misery, the endless waves of pain, his prolonged dehydration, this is no hallucination. 

 There  _is_  a presence above him. He _knew_ it.

 Joshua Graham knows, for while severely injured and emaciated, his intuition had rarely ever been off track before. Legends were made from his apparent durability -- the acute senses that came with it, and he had never found his instincts to be off before, aside from in slumber, perhaps. And maybe not even then. Despite his condition, despite everything, he dragged his gaze up from the cracked asphalt to find that, indeed, he was no longer alone.

 Three months of isolated desolation and Joshua Graham had been found.

 What he saw first was not what he was anticipating. A pair of dusted pre-war boots, relatively unscuffed given their age. Out of all possible phenomenon, these are things that Joshua found perplexing, and he blinked in his surprise. Yes, boots. Two of them. Which then led on to trouser cuffs, scuffed and worn. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, a pair of pale hands clasped together in between a pair of bended knees. In his exhausted state, incapable of movement and speech, Joshua focused upon the hands. The owner of these fingers, these palms, is no man of rough trades; hardly any sort of legionary, with the lack of calluses and scars, with no red welts from hard work. But then, once they bring one hand up towards him, he saw the callus that appears to have formed on the side of their trigger finger. It is a very familiar trademark. He felt his heart beating harder in his chest.

 The newcomer shied their hand away with a murmur of distress, pulling it away from where it hovered uncertainly above, having apparently decided that physical contact upon singed flesh blistered raw is the improper course of action. Joshua is grateful. For however he may deserve it, the pain was constant, and pressure only made it worse.

 Of course, such is the cost for damnation. He shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.

 This, Joshua Graham knows. It's the price he'll pay for the rest of his life.

 But why is this one here? He wondered. This area of the UT-36 had been abandoned since the war, tread only by the occasional trader, mercenary -- the tribals, who lived in the land to the east and west, did not venture into the pre-war vestiges -- and the occasional New Canaanite. It was one of two routes around the radioactive ruins of Salt Lake City, but it wasn't the easiest. People on this road where there for a reason. It was not a route idly taken.

 Surely he was far too gone for most wanderers of the Utah to bother an attempt at rescue. Nor would he make much of a prize for larceny. Thievery; a standard practice among the raiders of the region, was his first expectation, but he would prove to disappoint. The garments Joshua had worn previously had burned to pieces and melted against his wounds. He had been stripped of everything but the clothes on his back before being presented before Ceasar and he had come across nothing on his slow, agonizing way back to New Canaan.

 Joshua  _had_  managed to keep hold of his handgun, at least, it having been tossed after him on the way down. That was something. Only, he had run out of ammunition a month ago and sand had since congregated inside the chamber, rendering it useless. In all likelihood, Joshua would be a very disappointing find indeed.

 Slowly, very slowly, something cool pressed against his upper cheekbone, and Joshua's eyes flickered open to be locked upon the gaze of another. Eyes the colour of unpolished blue kyanite. Vault 70 blue. Joshua realized then, that yes, it must be true; the haircut, kept tight and neat at the back and sides; the painfully familiar handgun settled securely under the arm and then, the rectangular shape, two pieces of sturdy leathered hardback containing the word of God.

 A New Canaanite.

 Joshua had been found by one of his own.

 He's only a young one. Old enough, Joshua supposes, to be out beyond the walls on his own delegation, but gangly and awkward, retaining the fundamental frame of an adult male without the confidence, the refinement, or the fully-grown figure. Such was often than not the case, in these parts; most Missionaries left the walls of New Canaan as boys and came back men, from the age of nineteen for two years or much longer, sent out into the world to spread the Way of the Canaanite. It was a calling that came from before the war, established long ago by the first settlers of the Utah. These days, missionaries attended to the tribes.

 Odd then, that this one would be here, on this particular route, coming in from the south. Unless things had changed, there was little reason for him being so close to Ogden territory if he ought to be working on spreading the word of God.

 Joshua idly wonders where his tribe is, or if he even has one. 

 "Can you hear me?" The figure above him asked, and then, having appraised the situation alarmingly fast for someone so clearly out of their depth, quickly amended his question. "No- Uh," the persistent eye contact proved to be too much, for the boy looked down to the toes of his boots for a quick, uncertain second. "Blink if you can hear me."

 Joshua blinked, but before the boy could speak again, he wrenched his head up with such force that Joshua himself was surprised that the younger man's skull remained attached to his neck. It was a jittery movement, one that caused him to overbalance and stoop forward, palm resting flat against the asphalt in support. He likely saw something, or heard something; they were out in the open, but the wildlife -- and the population -- of the Four States Commonwealth was usually of the tricky sort. Do not immediately disregard what you do not immediately detect, was the mantra.

 And this boy here must know it. He does not look convinced in the slightest. His thought process moved across his face as he thought, and Joshua, collapsed and defenceless, merely waited for the decision to be made. He had the gut-wrenching feeling of not being able to do much else. 

 The boy looked back at him, mouth set into a grim line. _This is it_ , Joshua thought, then, looking up at the youth looking down on him, an intense uncertainty reflecting clear as day. His fate is sealed.

 Of course, nothing ever goes how he expects it to; the heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps, and sure enough -- what Joshua had assumed did not in the end occur. 

 "I'm going to have to get you up. I can't help you here."

 Shock. Then confusion. 

 But then Joshua remembered the Samaritan who stopped for the injured man -- the priest and the Levite who didn't, and he allowed himself a glimmer of hope against his usually harsher judgment.

 "I'm sorry." The boy grunted, raising Joshua into a standing position, knelt behind his head and hooking both elbows under his shoulders. After what felt like millennia, Joshua soon found himself off of the ground, limbs protesting as he felt his bodyweight shift to his right leg. The boy's hand shot out suddenly to grab his right forearm, and that startled him. The strength of the grip was vastly out of proportion to what he was expecting. 

 Joshua hissed out at the contact, but found himself unable to say anything, utter no warning. It would have done little regardless, for the reason was blatantly obvious and the boy did not stop; he spluttered some form of sincere apology again the hoisted Joshua up over his shoulder. Hard. Quick.

 "Sorry," he grunted against the strain of Joshua's weight, grabbing a rucksack the Legate hadn't seen before with his free hand. "But I can't help you here. No cover here on this end of the road. None easily for the next mile."

 Perhaps it's the hope of being found by one of his own that does it, or maybe it was just the delirium, but Joshua managed, eventually, to speak. It was not an easy affair, working his jaw was painful beyond belief, but he managed. He opened his eyes again.

 "Thank you for finding what's left of me."

 The boy started a little, but when he spoke, Joshua detected some sombre amusement in the depths of his tone.

 "Wry. But... Don't mention it." He let out a noise of strain as he picked up the pace. "It's the least I can do for a fellow brother, right?"

 How he knew, Joshua didn't -- but it must mean something.

 Home, perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the "boy" here is Daniel. It's hard to determine his actual age, given that we know nothing of him in the DLC, but considering how both he and others directly refer to him as a missionary, I put him somewhere around the 19-20 mark at the beginning of this. There are four years between the First Battle of Hoover Dam and the second, so while I'll have specific storyline reasons for his age and position, it's a matter for debate. Joshua, meanwhile, is canonically middle-aged, so here I have him roughly at the age of 49/50 here.


	2. Settlement Respite

## | PART ONE |  
CHAPTER TWO

## 

#### JOSHUA GRAHAM

       They do not make it much further down the road when the boy leads off unexpectedly east, off into the mountainside.

 It wasn't a long detour, nothing more than two miles at the very most, but for Joshua it felt endless. The uncertainty rallied inside his chest, and he briefly considered questioning just what his fellow New Canaanite's intentions were. As the Legate, Joshua Graham had not been privy to a lack of information. To be at the whims of someone else, aside from Caesar, someone younger, was a very foreign feeling.

 Much to his relief, he did not need to inquire. The boy's intention became clear as they reached a nearby reservoir. 

 Joshua was able to smell it before he saw it. Water and earth. A result of a prolonged absence of exposure, the informed part of his mind supplied, as they passed an old abandoned toll booth. His newfound companion walked all the way up to the very east end of the water. There, a small stream fed into the reservoir, largely concealed by a border of shady scrub oaks. It was here that the boy deposited Joshua, right under the foliage to keep the sun off them both, a stone's throw away from the water's edge. Everything between the mounting hillside was flat, the far shore a straight, single line before the raised white dam. They were high enough, up here, that all they could see beyond that was the slight slither of empty desert and then, suddenly, the rising peaks of the faraway mountains.

 It is here that they hold up, in this hollow of reasonable size, passing on the passing evening in silence.

 It is neither tense or pointed, the quiet. For while Joshua would usually relish the chance to indulge in his weakness for speech, he is still too weak for casual conversation. The boy, meanwhile, is simply too occupied.

 There is a lot to do. One of the first things on the boy's agenda is making Joshua as comfortable as possible, given their surroundings, which are already far more pleasant than baking out in the open on an unprotected roadway in the middle of the desert. Away from the wind, and perhaps most relievingly; out of the sun, the pain began to dull. Before, it had been an endless, unrelenting sting that smarted every inch of exposed skin. Now, his limbs and torso simply throb with a steady discomfort that was more annoying than that of painful. It's enough of a difference to sleep. Unfortunately, however, Joshua's inner self-preservation kept him from resting suitably. 

 It is a testament to their bond as New Canaanites that, despite not knowing each other's names, they are comfortable in being defenseless within each other's presence. 

 Of course, the boy was only assuming that Joshua was indeed a New Canaanite; if he knew who he really was, what he had done, then he is sure that things would not nearly be as peaceful. Joshua is all too aware that he was, to put it bluntly, an enemy of New Canaan. He had killed enough of his people to obtain such a standing. Still. Joshua did not know if the boy is merely too foolhardy to feel threatened, or if he trusted Joshua not to only refrain from shooting him in the back, but actually _protect_ it. The young New Canaanite barely considered his wider surroundings. He hummed as he worked. 

 If left Joshua tense when he tried to sleep and alert when he was awake, inclined to be on guard for both of them.

 In the end, Joshua had to stay awake. After one long appraisal of their surroundings, the boy came back barely ten minutes later, armed with various supplies. 

 The boy --  _a name_ , Joshua thought to himself during the next few awkward minutes,  _he needs a name_  -- was a missionary of medical pursuits, it appeared. He forced Joshua to drink a revolting beverage, something both simultaneously sweet and salty that the Malpais Legate almost had trouble getting down, before organizing a multitude of medical equipment that suggested organization above that of the standard placement. Joshua recognized most of it. Bandages, tools, various devices that he couldn't name but had seen at some point back in the civilized world, the Legion being restrictive of Pre-War materials. 

 He came back into the hollow as Joshua felt something unsettling in his stomach, a twisting feeling that only intensified as the younger man tried to pull him up. Before either of them can get very far, Joshua felt the sudden, violent spasm intensify, and the unappetizing beverage he had just consumed made a quick and unseemingly reappearance, stopping them both in their tracks, stunned into silence.

 Joshua became aware of what he'd done and was suitably mortified. The boy, however, was rather amiable about it, despite him being the unintentional target.

 "I should have expected that," he said, not unkindly, and lead Joshua out again to settle against a nearby rock face, the ground below covered with a plastic tarp. The missionary kicked off his trousers and threw them into the stream with no hesitation, replacing them with a pair of dark khaki shorts, designed for climbing, before shrugging the whole incident off with grace suggesting that it was his usual disposition. "You're in a really bad state," he regarded Joshua with an appraising look -- a lead on, rather than a complete diagnostic of his general condition. "This is going to take awhile."

 And it does. The boy rattles off a number of different scientific terms, from the simple basics such as dehydration and burns -- easy, uncomplicated, to the more exotic that Joshua has never heard of in his life. Hypovolemic shock, osmolality, tissue perfusion -- the words mash together and paint a dire picture, but the boy seems calm enough. He doesn't just act on instinct and throw Joshua headlong into the river like a common mind might; he has a cloth which he continually soaks in water, taking great care in how hard he does so, and for how often. It takes easily over an hour, but the boy finally manages to get rid of enough crusted dirt to gently unzip the ruined jacket without tugging, unbuttoning the damaged shirt he wore under that, and ease them both off. 

 His undershirt, however, has plastered itself to his wounds.

 The boy grimaced when he sees his eyes on it, stopping in his tracks with a look that could be nothing aside from supreme discomfort. He grabbed a nearby pocket knife.

 "I am very, very sorry about this."

 And he really is, it seems, because his expressions -- verbal or otherwise -- are more pained than Joshua's are. He has to cut the fabric it away and then drench Joshua again to work it loose. Joshua himself sits there, uncomplaining until the cotton undershirt he wore had removed a portion of it around his shoulder, leaving behind a dangerously open wound that, while it did not hurt, felt profoundly wrong, forcing out a shocked curse -- and one that the boy physically recoiled at the sound of.

 For a moment, Joshua wonders if the boy is going to hightail it and physically vomit himself. When he actually takes note of what occurred, his knees nearly collapse. He has to brace himself against the tree.

 "You're a missionary?" Joshua asked to distract the distressed younger man, who startled back into action with a look of immense discomfort on his face. He shook his head after a moment, making an undignified grunt-noise.

 "Not yet," is his answer, one that makes Joshua pause.

 That did not make sense -- New Canaanites rarely left the walls of their home, and only did so to serve the Lord or trade -- but to pry would be, at best, impolite. Instead, he changed tracks. "What is your name?"

 "Daniel." The boy replied, and that name felt _right_ somehow. It was simple, solid New Canaanite style. As he turned around again, Joshua looked him in the face, at the half-mussed hair and slight, almost-shadow along his upper lip, the features that hadn't quite met adult softness and decided that everything fit. "I... uh, this is not going to be comfortable..."

 "It could hardly be any worse," Joshua sighed.

 At first, Joshua Graham had suffered quietly in a sea of forced nothingness -- his body had shut down well before impact, fading into an icy numbness and he had awoken perhaps three days or so later, the pain had still not yet returned. Shock, he felt; black filled the edges of his vision and for the longest time the only thing he could hear was his own heartbeat. Three months, fifteen days -- give or take. Consumed by a pain that knew no end or limit, if his survival had not been by God's hand, then he truly was to suffer. Increased awareness brought increasing agony; the longer his survival the more prolonged the pain. Days turned into weeks into months and it simply would not stop. Not for a single moment.

 "You're sick," Daniel approached, gently, with a bottle of something clear and a roll of gauze. "Aside from... you know. Dehydration, malnutrition." He gave Joshua's torn shoulder a long, hard look. "Septicemia. We need to get you to New Canaan."

 "I... See..." At first, he had been moving in the direction of Ogden because in his muddled and uncoordinated state, it made sense. Now...

 Joshua sighed. If he didn't trust Daniel now, what other choice did he have?

 And Daniel, despite his uneasiness, is trying his best. Having been surrounded by over-zealous Legionaries of similar age to the boy here, Joshua was unprepared to deal with this sudden appearance of doubt. He's not entirely sure how to handle it. Or, if he even should.

 "Thank you," he tried, tentatively, half expecting some sort of outburst or panic, only to make a subconscious note in the back of his mind when Daniel merely relaxed -- and then smiled. Relief, more than amusement. The boy nodded.

 The chance for even the smallest bit of relief from this constant pain was... welcome. Joshua inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all, of course, but he shouldn't mind, to have a little help. It is good to have friends, he remembered, years ago, back when he used to look up at people rather than down. That was a very long time ago. Maybe it can be good again.

 In order to actually be of any more help, Daniel has to consult a pre-war medical textbook on proper bandaging procedure. He's never had to do this many techniques on this many limbs, he states with interest, until he remembers just what actually occurred in the first place to merit such wounds, and he abruptly quietened. Embarrassment was then met with further realization, and Daniel stepped back after managing to completely bandage Joshua's second-degree burns, and frowned. 

 "Who did this to you?" He asked, very quietly.  

 Joshua sighed. Such an isolated place meant plenty of time for introspection, and no escape from an unwanted conversation. It was going to happen eventually.

 "The Legion," he answered simply, and at Daniel's troubled expression in return, shook his head. "I..."

 "You don't need to," Daniel interrupted with such forced recognition that Joshua very practically felt it. Of course, it made sense. "The Legion... We know the Legion. I'm surprised that you are alive at all."

  _You and me both_ , Joshua wanted to say. Instead, he remained in silence as he debated as to whether or not he should explain. He is surprised that Daniel had not put two and two together. Or, maybe he has no idea. It wouldn't surprise him. He had brought great shame upon the New Canaanites, it would be expected for them to try and cover up his existence. He wonders if the New Canaanites are even aware that the Legion had recently lost the war. News should have made it by now.

 The New Canaanites, like a lot of tribes, were not allied with the Legion. While Caesar had a grudging respect of the power and strength of the New Canaanite order, largely stemming from Joshua's own expertise and the few, often violent, scattered conflicts deep in the south, where Legionaries where more likely to corner younger, untrained preachers -- who still nonetheless put up an awful fight, there was to be no quarter. Caesar had wanted the whole of the Utah before the Dam, and the New Canaanites, Joshua recalled from his childhood, where the God given forerunners of the northern country. Abandoning the region only came when faith itself was at stake. 

 War was certain from the moment the New Canaanites formally denounced Joshua. They had been violently fighting over the tribals and land to the south-east ever since.

 "While Ed-... Caesar, was the one to strike the match, it was the Lord who invoked the real forfeiture," he intoned, as the boy was fishing out a looser t-shirt and another pair of shorts. Daniel frowned again. 

 "How can you call  _this_  a fitting end?" Daniel demanded, horrified.

 Joshua blinked. "I'm the Malpais Legate," he replied, slowly, as if explaining to a very young, very dull child. "After everything I have done, this is an adequate punishment, that I assure you."

 It takes Daniel at least seven seconds to connect the dots. He stared at Joshua, who looked straight back, mouth working as if he was going over each individual vocable. Only, when he finally came to grasps with what Joshua had revealed, he did respond in any of the ways the former Legate had initially expected. It was rapidly becoming a habit.

 No fear, no anger. He did not go running for his handgun. Instead, the boy folded his arms and looked, as best as Joshua could describe, frustrated.

 Daniel grunted, chest surging with a fit of idealism that Joshua did not anticipate. "You're here and that-... It's not the Legion's place to decide, nor is it yours, or mine." The boy reminded him flippantly in a near growl, insistent, and Joshua wonders where this sudden hard view in principle came from. From relatively easy going and awkward bashfulness to, in a matter of seconds, hard doctrine and fundamental dogma. Joshua half expected him to start addressing scripture, but instead, the boy just deflated. As soon as the firm veracity had emerged, it was squashed and replaced with a creeping redness along his ears and cheekbones.

 This was apparently a miss-footing. Perhaps he is not used to being able to speak his mind, at least this assertively.

 "It'll be fine, I think," he grumbled eventually after a moment of self-collection, saving face. "I don't know, okay? Only that I can't leave you here. So... you're stuck with me, or I'm stuck with you or whatever because I'm not just going to... That's not right. It's not. It's not up to me." Daniel ran a hand through his hair. "It's up to the Lord. Or to Mordecai. Physically, the latter."

 That is name Joshua had not heard in a long time. He blinked, and realized that no matter the outcome, he had set the wheels in motion. He had faced the consequences of failing the Legion, falling away from the Lord, but he hadn't actually faced those of waging war against his tribe. He suddenly felt very tired. 

 "And to be very honest with you, I think he'll be more occupied with ringing my neck than yours," Daniel added, as an afterthought, voice droll. He exhaled. "So, _there_."

 And with that confirmation, Joshua allowed himself to relax. If he was looking for trial on account of his past deeds, he wasn't going to find them here.

 So he extended his hand.

 "Joshua Graham," he introduced himself properly. No Legate, no Malpais, Dominus -- just Joshua Graham, and he decides that he liked it.

 The boy took his palm with a sudden, relieved grin.

 "Daniel Pasqualone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's hard to fully understand how one would respond to Joshua Graham in such circumstances. Daniel is not a major character (if anything, he's rushed and riddled with inconsistencies) and therefore not as concrete, but I imagine that a younger, less wary, personification might simply resort to what is right rather than what is required. If the New Canaanites were ashamed, I imagine that he would have no real understanding of what Joshua is/was. 
> 
> That, I dare say, comes later. 
> 
> As for now, here is someone, a young and idealistic but nonetheless good someone, willing to help a stranger in need. Even if that means failing to grasp the consequences and merely throwing them at the feet of the nearest available ~~adult~~ authority.
> 
> As for Joshua, I imagine Daniel is very different from what he is used to. Thirty or so years in the Legion, and his only real experience will be similarly aged Legionaries who probably have a very different idea of what is socially appropriate behavior. Daniel will likely confound him for a while.


	3. Proverbs

## | PART ONE |  
CHAPTER THREE

## 

#### DANIEL PASQUALONE

      Three days before, Daniel had been frowning over a roughly sketched map of Provo, thoroughly chewed pencil clenched between his teeth as he struggled to decipher the old route into Vivian Park against the copious amounts of tightly packed contour lines. He had been making use of the good weather all morning. Now there was work to be done.

 "There is something different about you," Walking Cloud brushed the tips of her fingers along the curved angle of Daniel's shoulders as she walked on by. He looked up when she rounded the table, finding himself immediately locked in with one of _those_ looks. Her eyes were lighter than his, almost grey, and they penetrated his façade with effortless ease. 

 Daniel blinked, recognized that this was mother's intuition, a method of mercilessly acquiring information -- something he felt, in all honesty, that he was above -- and flashed a grin at her in response.

 "I'm a day older and a day wiser," he suggested. Her English had rapidly improved; she understood the inclination, and she rolled her eyes. 

 "You," she flicked a hand in his direction. "Are two ten's older and one day wiser." 

 Daniel took that with a shrug. "As you say,"

 She hummed under her breath as she entered further into the cave system. When Daniel had come here with Sawyer, it had been empty, prone to infestations from tunneling vermin. The two New Canaanites had since made it into a base of operations; politely separated from the rest of the camp and filled with pre-war equipment, borne out of necessity and gradually becoming that of charity. Sawyer had put together a deck to level out the floor, to level out the ground. Daniel took advantage and used it for medical pursuits. It was much easier to operate on someone when they were on a level surface.

 Now, most of the equipment was dissembled and put away for the future. Only the tent remained up, for there was structural damage to the poles and, with Sawyer gone, Daniel was not confident enough to even try. It was a problem that succeeding group of Missionaries could attempt if they so desired.

 The Sorrows, at least, would not be needing it. They had lived here long enough without the aid of pre-war equipment to get on, and Daniel was assured enough in their abilities. Walking Cloud had always been a dutiful midwife -- she had only become more capable with his, rather trivial, he must admit, instruction. If she had been largely successful before, well, surely things would only work their way upwards from here. He smiled, nodded to himself. They would be fine. It wasn't like Daniel had been much use outside of logistical and medical matters to begin with. 

 Regardless, he felt like he had ice in his gut. Was it guilt? Daniel did not think that made any sense. Maybe it was just grief. He had enjoyed his time in Zion -- felt more at ease here then he had done at any point in his life back at New Canaan. Surely it was okay then? To grieve for something he had come to love?

 But, it wasn't his job. Daniel wasn't a missionary, not yet, and he'd never been sent out here in the first place. It was Sawyer's stupid plan that put them out here in the first place, and now that the latter had gone, scrambled up the southern end of the park into the big wide beyond, Daniel knew that he had to go home. He'd sent word with a passing caravan at the start of the year. If he didn't go now, they'll assume that something bad had happened. 

 Yet, there was that hesitation.

 It felt like he is being pulled in two different directions at once. Daniel could not stand it. 

 Waking Cloud put a small clay cup of something at his elbow. He picked it up without thinking and hissed out in pain when the heat came into contact with his fingers, but the Sorrows were a finicky lot when it came to meal etiquette. He knew better. Only White Bird insisted on actually handing him beverages anymore; the others had learned to compromise after he'd dropped one too many cups on reflex. He wondered what Mordecai would think about him drinking coffee. Scandalous.

 "You are plotting another act of defiance," Waking Cloud's tone was teasing, and she stood next to him as he thumbed a torn corner of the map he'd liberated from one of the nearby old-world Ranger stations. With this, and the modifications he'd made to an older map of the park that accounted for the changes resulting from the seismic activity during the war, he'd be able to get back home.

 "I am doing no such thing," he took a drink from his mug and lingered on the bitter taste. It reminded him of when he first got here, scratched up and hopelessly lost with Sawyer at his heels, half-fleeing from their respective obligations and wholly fleeing from Zion's indigenous wildlife. He'd grown four inches since then. They used to stand at eye-level, he and Waking Cloud, but now Daniel could rest his chin on her head if she stooped slightly.

 That, at least, was some motivation to get back home as soon as possible. He needed clothes that fit him properly, not just when he pushed them down his hips as far as they'd go.

 "Hm," Waking Cloud remarked. Daniel gave her an irritable look in response.

 "I do things besides weak havoc and sow mayhem," he said peevishly. 

 "I would like to learn of such things," she replied, fast as a whip, and Daniel scoffed in the way of defense.

 "More of the reason to get out of your hair then, I suppose."

 He regretted the words the second they came out of his mouth. Waking Cloud, while likely not entirely understanding the turn of phrase, understood the implication. She looked upset. 

 Daniel sighed and put the cup down. 

 "I... That was... Insensitive."

 Goodbyes are much harder in advance then they are spur of the moment and Daniel is doubly damned in this case because he's bad at the latter as well. He holds her, of course, because that is the nice thing to do and they've grown close over the past year -- family, he'd guess -- and it's not like Daniel's appearance here was sub-standard. This was not a professional relationship. It would have been far easier if it had been.

 Instead, Daniel had come staggering in here with Sawyer, two grubby seventeen-year-olds and in big, big trouble. They were not Missionaries. This was never about duty. 

 "I'll come back," he says. "Someone has to teach that boy of yours demonstrative pronouns."

 Maybe. He told her, told himself. He'd have time, wouldn't he? During those lingering, awkward periods after a Missionary returns home and before he begins working his adulthood profession, months, sometimes. Some men stayed on retainer, right? Daniel smiled like he was at ease, skimmed his fingers against her arm as they pulled back. 

 It's not like with Sawyer, because there is an inkling, a slim, desperate chance that he could return to Zion and they both know it. Is it likely? Not at all, but Daniel doesn't try to rationalize it out loud because it feels too close to hopeless anticipation and they both know it. That wasn't fair. With Sawyer, it had been a hard, firm ending, no space for any sort of maybe or any kind of perchance. That was easier to walk away from, even if it did still bite. 

 "Give it a month or so," he said with a shrug, grinning. "They'll get sick of me before long."

 Walking Cloud gave him an incredulous look as she took her leave, leaving Daniel to let out a short, frustrated breath and turn to look back at to the route he'd mapped out. Only when he did, there was nothing but darkness, an unnatural depth that dragged him forward and-

 - woke him up.

 Daniel hissed under his breath when his elbow smashed against the ground beneath him, startling back into consciousness when he couldn't immediately recognize his surroundings. 

 It was only when he turned his head to find himself face to face with Joshua that he remembered. The older man lay as straight as a board, head turned in Daniel's direction with his face pulled into a slight frown. It almost gave him a start.

 Almost.

 "S'nothing," Daniel clarified, unnecessarily, then stretched vigorously. "Are you ready?"

 Joshua made noise at the back of his throat in confirmation. 

 He preferred to sleep while the weather was at its hottest. Having dragged Joshua past the Stansbury mountains, alongside the salt lake, down the 80' to the North-East all in attempt to avoid the ruins of SLC, then north-bound down the salt-encrusted wetlands until they finally -- finally, made it to a small suburban street in Farmington (the locals, the braver regular band of squatters who hadn't run off when the Legion moved north, called it Splinter -- for that's all what is left of the original architecture) on the other side of the highway. Fifty-one miles in twenty-two hours with an injured man on your pack was borderline on misery, but at least they succeeded in making it there safe.

 And now it was time to move on again. It was afternoon now, and Daniel wanted to be in Weber by nightfall. 

 Despite the sheer intensity of it all, Daniel could not help but take some form of comfort in their situation. Granted, what awaited him in New Canaan would be nothing short of a severe dressing down, but he felt better about it, now that he knew that he wouldn't be going in alone. A year was a long time, but next to Joshua... It felt wrong, to hide behind the man's faultlines, cowardly, even -- but then, Daniel would be more help if his own front wasn't being bombarded. 

 He knew it would be hard to explain. He had chosen to stay in Zion for as long as he had because they had drastically needed the help, and without clear, decisive routes, it would be easy to get lost in the wilderness. Granted, the whole idea of going in there was their fault, to begin with, but it was either that or getting shot, eaten or God knows what else. It'd taken him nearly seven months to map out the region properly. Zion just wasn't the same anymore.

 Of course, Daniel had taken his time with it. Ever since leaving New Canaan, he'd encountered something worth such forbidden idleness, something that he'd never truly felt in it's real capacity.

 Near limitless freedom. It was almost too much to give away.

 Daniel had loved every second he was in Zion. If it wasn't for Joshua, who required more medical attention than he could provide, and soon, he'd have probably lost his nerve and ran straight back to it, reputation be damned.

 Not that he had any other choice than to take it slow. Even with careful pacing and slow progress, Joshua could not walk for very long independently. Daniel was hardly surprised. The damage was substantial -- Joshua shouldn't have lived through the  _impact_ , let alone the three-month trek back to New Canaan, and his longevity would be amazing if not for the fact that the man was dangerously close to death on a constant basis. He couldn't physically stay upright for very long. Daniel, if he wasn't outright carrying the man, had to take all of his weight. 

 They don't talk about it.

 Daniel doesn't have to be aware of the details to identify a bad subject when he sees one, and the Legion, _yes_ \-- that is one very bad subject to have to bring up in conversation. So Daniel doesn't.

 The only problem with that is, with the absence of things to talk about (and, really, what much else was there to Joshua Graham other than the Legion?) Daniel had to pull something out of the metaphorical hat. Unfortunately for him, the urge to talk, the need to be heard, was also making things difficult, because the only thing they shared, truly, was New Canaan, and Daniel had a fair number of things to say about  _that_. Things best kept under wraps. Embarrassing things. Arkward.

 Instead, he just rambled.

 He talked about other things. Zion. Raiders. Great Salt Lake. Locals. It's a random series of recent memories and highlighting tales that he digs up clumsily from his subconscious. If this was any other scenario, Daniel  _would_  accuse himself of incoherent drivel, but Joshua appeared appreciative of the commentary. A reminder, Daniel supposes, that he's not alone after all. He was happy to oblige. 

 Heck, it distracted him, too.

 Because even if his betters back at New Canaan were delighted to have Daniel back, he couldn't see anything...  _positive_ , coming out of returning to New Canaan like this. With Joshua. He refrains from mentioning it because he doesn't want to put Joshua in any more emotional turmoil than he might be suffering with, but twenty to thirty something years is a long time for someone to be gone, particularly in a community like theirs -- and it wasn't like Joshua's exit was particularly honourable in the first place. The elders were ashamed, completely, utterly -- nobody would mention him in or out of the town walls, and to do so generally caused a bit of a ruckus. Daniel had certainly never mentioned it, but then, he comes from a generation that was, at best, kept in the metaphorical dark when it came to their taboo truths.

 Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue keeps themselves out of trouble and all that. But then, of course, concealing transgressions hardly paved the way to prosperity, either.

 Daniel grunted, shifting Joshua's weight up higher against his shoulder as his mind struggled to right itself with the contradicting teachings. He considered on the idea fruitlessly, so intently that he very nearly lost his footing on some uneven asphalt until he recognized the underlying layer beneath it all, the one, simple conclusion that settled in his chest, cleared his and let him breathe again.

 Mordecai would sort it out. 

 After all, if not him, then who? Daniel would put his trust in the Lord as firmly as any other man, but he recognized the sensible rationality in allowing their leader to deal with the matter. It was his duty, after all, and Mordecai, who had years of experience and had led New Canaan and it's people for nigh on thirty years, would know what to do. He always did.

 All Daniel had to do was get there.

 They make it four or so miles north, just beyond Keysville -- which they avoided, for there was always a resident population of Gehennas lurking in the ruins -- in the East Mountain Wilderness Park bordering the mountains when they are hit. Daniel did not realize they had company until the first gunshot cracked overhead, whistling a few inches too close to hit a tree barely a foot away. He marked the spray of bark and fiber, the way it exploded with the impact, and overheard the familiar rattle in which indicated that they would quickly be on the wrong end of a very familiar machinegun.

 Daniel panicked in the face of unfamiliar terrain and a lack of decent cover, hesitating for those few vital seconds as his brain screamed at him to _move it darn you_. Lower down, there was a tree forty or so meters to his left, but giving them the high ground seemed like a huge mistake.

 Not that they had much choice in the matter. The attackers were coming in from the east, from the nearby mountainside. They'd have the vantage wherever Daniel liked it or not.

 Half dragging Joshua down with him, Daniel threw himself against the ground as half a dozen bullets fired off. Joshua got into cover before he did, propelled by the momentum and the lighter weight, leaving the younger missionary to half crawl over, head turned in order distinguish where the gunfire was coming from. The rise in land would just be enough to kneel without getting his head shot off, so Daniel raised himself up onto his elbows. He was filthy, now. Although that should rightly be the least of his concerns.

 At Joshua's pained grumble, Daniel winced and blurted out some form apology, dragging himself into cover and trying to recall where the sound had come from as he slid his handgun free from his holster. Of course, what he'd really liked to do is just pop out of cover and give them a run for their money, but he can't do that while the closest thing he has to an ally here is whacked. Paper white; even burned, panting, and, even though he's only just cooling off, shivering.

 So Daniel is surprised, to say the least, when Joshua extended his right hand.

 "You have the subma-"

 He is cut off when one of the attackers fired a round that skimmed their cover, bouncing off and kicking up wood into Daniel's face. Regardless, he understood the implication, and it made him feel uncomfortable.

 Daniel waved to where it was strapped against the side of his pack as he grabbed the magazine from his holster. They traded firearms, Joshua with his handgun while Daniel worked on feeding the magazine into the submachine gun. By the time Joshua had managed to get comfortable with Daniel's .45, the younger New Canaanite was pulling back on the bolt handle and the enemy beyond was _close enough_. 

 "Are you...?" He doesn't want to push, but then, he's not exactly comfortable having Joshua in this fight to begin with. If it will even come to that. Chance had it being a lone raider or two. Daniel's ranged ability is abysmal compared to the New Canaanite standard -- but in the Wasteland, he had the competence of one educated with Pre-War averages. He'd grown up with firearms, had been instructed by men with a lineage that ran straight through the Vault to the old Salt Lake City police department. The same went for most youth who grew up behind the walls.

 New Canaanites were gunslingers, rumor had it true -- but it went beyond fiction. It was a right of passage. 

 Joshua was probably no exception. So Daniel brought the machine gun up to his shoulder and popped out of cover just enough to get any sort of insight on their positions.

 "Perfectly," Joshua replied to his question, and Daniel shrugged.

 "Huh, if you're sure." He caught something on this right and shifted his dominant hand along, bracing himself. 

 He is. He really is. If Daniel wasn't a bad decision away from looking down the barrel of a automatic firearm, he'd be alarmed at the concept of a man in this much agony, suffering that much difficulty, utalize his cover with the same quality as any able-bodied fellow might. It left him feeling thankful, mostly because it is Joshua who ended up winning them that fight, even while outnumbered -- all of them armed with .45 automatic machine guns.

 Daniel had the same make. Only his was a modded, well-maintained machine with a compensator. When he pops out of cover, he exhausted the full round in less than five seconds and was hardly surprised when two, white-skinned individuals duck widely for cover once they realized just what was firing _back_.

 He can't hear anything over the clamor of his own machine gun, but he does see one of them fall back with a bloody spray of shattered bone and sinew -- and knows that it sure as heck wasn't him. Joshua pegged two of them before he'd even finished exhausting the magazine, one between the shoulder blades, the other through the stomach, and he pulled back into cover just as Daniel did. 

 "One more," Joshua pushed against Daniel's forearm with the knuckles of his hand and Daniel just about managed to swallow as he fed another magazine in, biting down on his bottom lip as he watched the landscape of trees and rocks, dips and rises in the land that hide shadows and God knows what else. 

 Joshua spotted them before Daniel did. Two more bullets, two more barks of his handgun, and once they are sure that the danger had passed, when silence settled again over frayed nerves, Joshua crawled back over and handed him back his .45, the magazine still largely intact. Daniel took it without looking at it. The weight when he slides it back into it's holster felt heavier than usual. 

 He stood. They'll likely have some spare ammunition on them. He should get on that, even if it is an unseemly job.

 Joshua's eyes moved from behind Daniel to his arm in a matter of mere seconds. "Daniel," He called, brow lowering. "You're bleeding."

 _Oh, would you look at that._ Daniel pressed two fingers against the gash running along his shoulder and clenched his jaw. 

 "We need to keep moving," he grumbled under his breath. Forget the ammunition. They have to get out of here in case there are more of them. With White Legs, there usually were. "It's fine."

 But it isn't, really. It stings, for one, and the further they move the less concerned he becomes about raiders and the more he becomes about infection. It's hot out here, and between the heat and the shock and the fear, and the average level of adolescent perspiration, it's a legitimate concern. 

 They end up sitting on the concrete bank of another reservoir, a good mile off. Daniel pushed Joshua's head between his knees so he could come around as Daniel stood off in the basin and cleaned the wound up. It really is nothing more than a scratch, but that's hardly the concern; if that had hit him solidly, he'd have lost his arm. There are no two ways about it.

 "Those men had .45's," Joshua commented once he's settled again. The fight appeared to have awakened him, given him an inflation of energy. Daniel breathed out slowly through gritted teeth as he dabbed at his arm with an antiseptic wipe. "Things have changed since I last frequented this area."

 "And not for the best," Daniel replied eventually, disposing of the used medical supplies under a nearby rock. "Spanish Fork. There was a military base there; it used to hold weapons for the National Guard. Some of the older guys were talking about it before I left."

 "What happened?"

 " _They_  happened." Daniel shrugged. "Broke in, I think. With explosives. Tribals have been using them the most. White Legs."

 "What about the other tribes? The Dead Horses?"

 Daniel looked at him, gauging. What he was about to say smacked of tart judgment and he wasn't sure if he could come up with an explanation that wasn't so... _pointed_. In the end, he can't really do anything than offer the guarded truth.

 "After the Legion... It wasn't welcome news. From what I recall, we've gone nowhere near them since. We lost a guy, I think. To the Legion, though, not the Dead Horses."

 At Joshua's expression, Daniel stood and grabbed his rucksack.

 "But then, I've been sitting in a cave explaining the differences between 'where, were', 'there, their', and 'as and like' for the past three and a bit months," he said only half-jokingly as he gestured for Joshua to lift his arm up, new bandages in hand. "So it's fair game to say I've missed a thing or two."


	4. Them's The Rules

## | PART ONE |  
CHAPTER FOUR

## 

#### DANIEL PASQUALONE

The first thing Daniel noticed upon returning home was that they had built another wall.

Post-War northern Ogden was quiet for Wasteland standards; abandoned after the war and relatively untouched by radiation, his forebearers had settled the land here after the fall of New Jerusalem because it was easily defended on two sides, protected by the Wasatch Front. Daniel had never properly gone beyond the 150th metre before two years ago, sheltered by the opposing Ben Lomond and their own concrete walls, and now that he was on the outside, he realized with some trepidation that the teenage feeling of chafing restriction had been replaced by a strange, foreboding sense of awe. Those were some big walls. And they were protected.

The pair of them were spotted the second they made it out of the ruins. Perhaps it was the fact that Daniel had deliberately took the route leading into the east side of town as to avoid the squatter camp outside the western walls, maybe they were just expecting him -- or someone like him -- Daniel didn't quite know, but he was relieved nonetheless when a trio of men came running down the avenue to their aid.

It had been a gruelling day. He was glad to be back on familiar ground. 

So relieved, in fact, that Daniel actually forgot about Joshua until the moment it was too late. He realized, once Joshua was assisted, that situation that they were currently implicated in was precarious at best. Sore and exhausted, he clenched his teeth in worry when two of the more stockier gate guards hauled Joshua up between them and set back off to town, leaving Daniel behind to catch up. All three of them were young, he hurriedly assessed, barely a few years older than Daniel himself, if that. Surely they could not know Joshua Graham on sight? Surely not in this condition, certainly. Perhaps they would know of what he had done -- they had all been given the vague warning, when they were being trained for missioanryhood. Of the dangers of staying too far from God's light, the teachings of one's faith. Of abandoning the flock and the church. _Yes_ , Daniel thought with a frightened laugh that caused the lingering guard at his side to startle in surprise. They had been warned about the dangers of _that_.

He was going to get absolutely thrashed. 

But they wouldn't know Joshua. Not on sight. He hoped as much.

The come down from hard travel and exertion was not a gentle one. If he was praised for apparently saving someone's life then it went on deaf ears. He stumbled on after Joshua and the two guards without really acknowledging the remaining watchman or anyone else who happened to be swarming around in the edges of his vision. Someone shouted his name. Or something very similar to it. At one point, his ankle gave in over a jagged rise in asphalt and someone -- the guardsman, he realized, when his instincts flared up in defence -- grabbed his arm and hauled him back upright. 

His surroundings went from familiar to hauntingly recognizable to straight up vague over the course of a bewildering period of time. Some things Daniel recognised on sight, some others didn't fit right in his memory, warped from a long leave of absence and the faded memories of his childhood seen through the eyes of the unfamiliar adult, and some others he struggled to place at all. 

The only moment of real clarity came to him when they made it to the Outlier section of New Canaan. Daniel raised his head when he felt the unsettling itch of someone's eyes on his back and watched Hiram Rigdon watch him, he saw the recognition hit the older man's face, and Daniel knew, then. He understood. When the man turned and hurried in the direction of Mordecai's office, he knew it was only a matter of time, and fear squirmed inside his chest, repulsive and ill feeling.

It did not pass. If anything, it only mounted, steadily, until-

"Please stop pacing," Joshua pleaded and Daniel apologized on reflex before planting his feet and folding his arms, willing his legs to cease, to keep still.

New Canaan had two doctors. Asa Atkins dealt with missionaries and locals; he was a third generation New Canaanite, not Vault lineage exactly, but close, and Daniel knew him well. Asa had been the one to teach him medicine, but he was also quote-on-quote _weird_ and he had what Mordecai called 'ideas', which in turn prompted more cautious men like the Bishop to encourage a wide berth. Doc Angela, meanwhile, catered to the non-Mormon population. A former NCR mortician before she got tired of the caravan houses' politics and came to New Canaan with her ex-NCR Ranger husband, Ty, Anglea exchanged medical services for immunity from Mormon politics, and it had done her well.

Daniel recalled telling the guardsmen to take Joshua to Angela. Growing up, he had been told to stay away from Mr. Ty Wallace and his gentile NCR ways, but he'd always respected Anglea... And she was less likely to put up with Mordecai's ultra-conservativeness.

Of course, she saw right through Daniel's intentions the moment he showed his face.

"Don't think I'm getting involved in your business, boy," she warned him. "I'm here for your patient and nothing more."

Daniel had shrugged in reply. He had tried, and he was too tired to put up a fight. So prepared himself, both mentally and physically, for the onslaught that was moments from storming into the room.

The wait was agonizing, and Anglea ended up putting him to work, which was fine until nothing else could really be done. Joshua needed surgery but he was still too unstable to risk anaesthetic. That meant a few days of recovery before his wounds could be dealt with properly. Daniel got to show off his medical know-how by giving Anglea the complete run down and suggested courses of treatment, and she indulged him, but it had to end at some point. Soon, Daniel was left alone with a half-lucid Joshua and the wait crept into its second hour. It was unpleasant.

"You're nervous," Joshua noted, not unkindly, and Daniel actually laughed in response.

"I'm  _dead_ ," Daniel replied, before realizing that those words were a poor choice to make and he instead rolled a shoulder in agitation. "I'm... I've..."

Joshua frowned, but he did not pry for further explanation. He didn't get the chance to, for the door opened at that very moment and both of them looked in its direction simultaneously. 

Mordecai Tacroy had been Bishop for nigh up to twenty-five years and was the God-appointed successor of Judah Black himself, providing you followed the doctrine of the First Incarnation, the Protocanaanite system of order. He had ousted Jeremiah Rigdon and the Hands of God, defended his people from NCR expansion and brought his people to prosperity; he's big, bigger than both men, and his first instinct upon spotting Daniel stood meekly in the corner was very nearly one of impulsive violence. 

Daniel flinched when Mordecai approached him, but thankfully, the presence of Joshua was enough to force Mordecai to change tracks. Instead of in any way manhandling the younger New Canaanite, Mordecai dismissed him with a firm hand before dutifully informing him that he will be  _dealt with_   _later_. 

Almost two years of absence was not enough to curb a lifetime of conditioning. Daniel immediately dropped his head and skirted around the Bishop to slip out the door, no questions, no arguments. The hallway was no less oppressive, but Daniel settled into the unexpected familiarity with ease. 

Thankfully, Mordecai's usual suspects were not around to make everything worse. There was only the Sherriff, Mike O'Conner, and he wasn't a bad sort. He gave Daniel a pitying sort of look and asked him how he'd been, but otherwise did not engage.

It was for the best.  

He's a hard man, but not cruel, O'Conner and Daniel would have felt safer with the man if it weren't for the fact that the Sherrif, like every other sentient being with any inch of self-preservation, buckled when it came to Mordecai. Mike did not tolerate corporal punishment; he refused to smack his children and insisted that others do the same, but Mordecai was not a fan of sparing the rod by any means. Nor did he yield to other's expectations. Daniel was certain that O'Conner wouldn't be coming to his defence. Nobody ever did. It was Mordecai's right as an elder to discipline those under his purview how he saw fit. 

When the Bishop returned after nearly thirty minutes of quiet conversation with Joshua, Daniel knew he was done for, but he couldn't help but take some relief in the situation. He never heard a gunshot -- that meant Joshua was... okay. Daniel hadn't expected that. Not in that unsure, sceptical part of his mind. The Bishop was armed and could be severe when the situation called for it, so the fact that he had shown mercy was a massive weight off his back. Daniel fought back the impulse to sag with relief. Joshua was fine. He'd be fine. 

Unfortunately, the look on Mordecai's face was not in any way pleasant. It was the same look he had on his face when Daniel and his friends had gone missing for nearly three days in the nearby hillside back when he was nine. It promised hell to pay.

Mordecai gave O'Conner a cool look. "The man beyond is a... guest of ours. We shall not pass judgment just yet." He turned to Daniel. "I'd like to have a word with this one alone, if you please."

O'Connor gave his farewells and turned around. Daniel, in turn, did not look up from the floor to see him leave but instead strained to hear the man's footfalls, savouring each step until they were cut off by the sound of the door slamming shut. Once the silence overtook, Daniel knew that he was at Mordecai's complete mercy, so he kept his head down and tried to ignore the sheen of sweat he could feel against the small of his back.

"I understand that you have a lot to explain," Mordecai was the first to speak.

"Yessir."

"So you will indulge me then," the man's voice levelled out -- for most people, that was a sign of calm. When Mordecai was the one utilizing that tone, it was one of carefully controlled anger. Daniel winced. "When I ask of you the details surrounding your unauthorized leave of absence."

"I didn't-"

The Bishop of New Canaan snorted. "Don't you dare lie to me, boy. I recall what David Sawyer was like, that ill-disciplined little heretic. The fact that you have been gone for over a year and a half is completely inadmissible." Mordecai hissed in between his teeth and slammed his hand into the side of the wall next to Daniel's head. "For the love of all that is Holy, boy, we assumed you were dead!"

Daniel hated being reprimanded by Mordecai, deserved or otherwise. There weren't many adults in New Canaan who had the authority to tell Daniel off; Angela and O'Connor were the only two people who did so, regularly and O'Conner was more in the way of warning than actual rebuke, and at least Anglea was fair. Mordecai liked to twist things, and it always left him feeling more guilty than he ever thought possible. He had never thought Sawyer to be... all that... but Mordecai spoke with such clarity that he was starting to think that he might've been deceived, somehow. Daniel wasn't exactly a bad guy; he tried, and mostly he was good, but Mordecai made no distinction.

"I couldn't just leave him," Daniel gritted out before he was scolded again. "What was I supposed to do? Just leave him there?"

Mordecai fell silent and let him continue. This was a common tactic of the Bishop's; let his victim fall silent and dig themselves into their own hole, but Daniel was upset enough that he didn't catch on.

"It wasn't supposed to be like that, okay?" Daniel tried not to shout, he did, but his voice was already louder than what we would normally risk with the Bishop and his temper was only getting more fueled. He didn't look up to catch the man's expression, but it couldn't be anything good. "There was a landslide, the route was cut off, and I- I couldn't figure it out. Sawyer was injured. He needed help, and I couldn't... I wouldn't, I refused to just leave him there. I tried. Really. And it wasn't like I actually spent my time idly -- I found a tribe in Zion and we get along fine!  _Me'v aprengleranda de gensprach_ , not exactly fluently but I've made progress. You told me not to engage, but it was either that or getting lost in the wilderness. It wouldn't matter if I followed one order because I'd disobey the other regardless. That's not exactly fair! And if I hadn't then... Joshua'd, well, he'd be a lot worse off!"

"Have you finished?" Mordecai asked, and Daniel shrugged. "Come here."

Daniel walked over to stand before the Bishop and tried to look as apologetic and ashamed as possible. That usually worked. Not often, he recalled, but sometimes it had worked. 

What would he do now? Daniel had never been in severe trouble. Before... this, he'd had his judgment called into question and he was berated until near tears but he'd never stepped over the line; he was going to be sent off as a missionary no matter what he did. Daniel was young and stupid -- at least that was Mordecai's thoughts on the circumstances, but  _this_  was beyond the usual level of misbehaviour from Daniel, which was mildly nonexistent at worst. 

"Chin up, boy. Look me in the eye."

He looked Mordecai in the face just in time to feel the sharp blow of his hand across his face. It wasn't enough to make Daniel falter; he was a lot bigger than he used to be, and he'd lived with his biological father long enough to know when to move with the hit, but it was still sharp. The Bishop never did anything by halves. 

"There's a consequence for every action, my boy, whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." Mordecai reminded him. But then, much to Daniel's surprise, he sighed. "I am glad to see that you are... in one piece, at least." As Daniel stood up straight again, the Bishop looked him up and down. "You've grown into a man now, I see, and you've grown into your judgement. If one of mine shall spit in my eye, should he not be shamed seven days? Let him be shut outside the camp seven days, and after that, he may be brought in again." He regarded Daniel with a hand gesture. "You're tired. Anglea will see to any wounds you have, and later on, I shall fully learn of your... misadventures. Joshua Graham is a... notorious figure amongst our people, but his recollection of recent events has been duly noted. You have done right in the eyes of the Lord, my boy."

"Mordecai, please," Daniel found the courage to look him back in the face. "He's sorry, he is."

"That's not for you to decide," Mordecai replied thinly, and frowned. "Don't make me ask you again. I said go. Rest. I'll inform your family if they haven't already heard."

Daniel swallowed the bitterness and nodded, deeply. "Yessir."

After all, them's the rules, and Daniel knows what happens when people break them.

Joshua was layed up one of two beds, flat out, limbs straight, just how Daniel had left him. Rather than take the other bed, though, he simply looked down at the space in the middle of the room and stumbled, dropping to his knees and sinking onto his side on the floor instead. Just to be sure, he reached a hand out and seized hold of the fabric of Joshua's donated shirt sleeve and grunted.

 _There_ , he decided, fingers flexing as fatigue started to mount up, dragging him under. _That'll do_.

 


	5. Stockpile

## | PART ONE |  
CHAPTER FIVE

## 

#### JOSHUA GRAHAM

 

Through the weeks of idle recovery, Joshua Graham turns fifty in the midst of polite company and half a dozen rolls of cotton gauze dressing. 

This late on in the year, the populace of New Canaan was usually between full capacity and slightly below that of overcrowded. Farming work subsided into more artificial pursuits amidst the threat of the quickly impending winter, which meant more men in the industrial sector of New Canaan than in the outskirts. It did not matter to Joshua, much -- his presence here was withdrawn and, predominantly, indoors, but the increased activity had brought frequent news and various other subtle changes in his newfound young friend. 

Daniel sat cross-legged on the other end of the couch, facing Joshua, who sat on the other end with one hand raised and extended at the elbow. The boy focused most of his attention on completing the second example of hand bandaging, half-damp from a recent rainstorm and stripped off to nothing but his trousers and undershirt. Joshua, by comparison, was far more oddly dressed. One arm, both legs, throat, and face were covered in bandages and he was wearing nothing but a donated pair of shorts.

"Fifty, huh?" Daniel smiled as he dipped his head down to examine the underside of Joshua's arm, disguising his look of amusement but still nonetheless evidently pleased with his workmanship. "Man, you're old. Give that a try'n tell me if it's better than the other one. That is, if you can actually move your limbs without difficulty, y'know, with your advanced age and all."

Joshua rolled his eyes and swallowed the planned rejoinder as he waggled the fingers of his bandaged hand experimentally, grimacing internally at the way his ring and little finger struggled to bend. He informed Daniel of the problem, but refrained from revealing that he only appeared old because Daniel himself was still two months shy of  _twenty_ and therefore a mere child. 

(it felt odd, to think that. In the Legion, men were men the second they could fight in battle and take slaves. It was wrong to compare Daniel to the Legion -- he tried not to, but the distinction was always there, nonetheless, in the back of his mind)

As Daniel hated being infantized, however, he let it drop. There were both times and places -- half dressed and covered in bandages while his companion was within arms reach of a pair of dressing scissors was not one of them.

"Figure of eight, then." The boy himself declared as he started unwinding the bandage. He was in a good mood today, bouncing with unused energy and lively disposition. It blunted Joshua's own suffering.

Once removed, the dressing goes flying in a dejected ball into a pile of other discarded bandages.

"That's..." Daniel examined the notebook left leaning on the arm of the couch and retrieved a nearby pencil, striking one suggestion written in his fine handwriting out twice. "... All extremities down, just the torso to go."

Recovery had progressed to the point that Joshua, while still too sick and injured to venture out without the risk of infection, was healthy enough to move around largely on his own accord and spend his days awake and aware, even if he had to limit these wakeful periods to nothing more strenuous than quiet resting. It was an agonizingly long procedure, delayed with the startling conclusion that Joshua was, by result of genetic chance and his years with the Legion, dangerously unhealthy after nearly forty years of inadequate healthcare and a chance case of inherit chem resistance. It was a rare phenomenon, Angela informed him; usually, people who abstained from chem use where more susceptible to their side-effects, not exempt. 

The end prognosis was several months of slow, unassisted healing. Daniel was quick to reassure him that, in time, his burns  _would_  fully heal, it was just the time it would take which would prove problematic. 

Joshua thought back with some alarm to the days just before Hoover Dam, where scratches and cuts would take weeks to properly scab over. He doesn't mention it -- he mentions nothing of the Legion to anyone, at the Bishop's own request, but Daniel, smart as he was despite his naiveté, was quick to connect the dots regardless and act accordingly.

Bandages was the solution, for now. It was, aside from staying indoors for the next decade, one of the few treatment options short of living in a chemsuit. From his legs to his torso, arms, neck, and head, practically everything would be covered to prevent exposure and provide some semblance of comfort, however brief and insignificant.

It was a shocking thing to have to see in the mirror. The first time Daniel had finished working on bandaging his skull, it took Joshua a few hours to get used to the fact that  _this_  was to be his face. 

Daniel had sensed Joshua's declining mood. Living in the same space did that, and doing so for nearly a month had brought them to a period in their mutual understanding in which was best described as agreeably familiar. In fact, from the moment he had awoken to find Daniel at his side, fingers fitfully wrapped around his forearm, they had rarely spent their hours apart. The only time Joshua had the house alone was when Daniel schooled with the other senior novitiates his age, long afternoons spent training for his service out in the Wasteland.

Of course, Daniel had more than enough practice in that regard. Joshua was aware of... an incident involving the boy before they met, one that had the unexpected side effect of advanced experience. It meant that Daniel, nineteen-years-old, very nearly twenty, spent more time with Bishop than he did senior missionaries. For what, or why, Joshua did not know.

It wasn't an ordinary occurrence, that much he knew. Male New Canaanites were not as venerable at this age. Joshua certainly hadn't been. The fact that he was allowed to live alone was only more evidence. Most young men only left their family homes when there was suitable space, after they had completed their period of missionaryhood and even then, it was not often until they took a wife that they actually acquired their own property. Daniel, though, the boy hadn't met any of those requirements. Joshua had assumed, at first, that it was for his benefit -- it was nice, to have a friend close by -- but it had become obvious over the course of several days that it was as a deliberate attempt to isolate Daniel as it was him.

It was an unexpected development that prompted Joshua to realize, first with confusion, then surprise, that his young friend had more to him than what strictly met the eye.

Daniel was kind to his age mates; Joshua had witnessed his amicable relations with his brothers, his childhood friends, but there was a gap there, a space that separated them. Daniel carried himself differently. Was regarded more severely. 

Strange, Joshua felt. So very strange.

Still. He couldn't help but foster some amusement when the younger New Canaanite wriggled himself over the back of the couch and landed awkwardly front-first in an attempt to answer the back door. As Daniel wrenched it open and conversed with whoever was on the other side, Joshua reached over from where he was sat, took a roll of clean gauze and began working through the motions of the second bandaging technique he had been shown.

The whole thing ended mid-bicep, covering his forearms and individual fingers in a thick layer of cotton. Joshua examined his handiwork with grim acceptance. It wasn't a perfect job, but he felt like it was enough -- and he could move his fingers.

Daniel's footsteps crashed against the floorboards at an awkward, uneven pace. 

"Did you know that Immanuel Harris has been promoted to senior miss- Oh, wow, you did it yourself," Daniel seemed delightfully surprised as he struggled against the weight of something large, green and box-shaped with what looked to be a glass cooking dish balanced on top. He grappled with the unwieldy load, crossing the room in three wide, clumsy steps to relieve himself of his burden by dropping the whole thing onto the coffee table. They landed heavily, and Daniel winced at the angry indentations they had left on his forearms before leaning over to examine Joshua's own work. "Pretty nice," he admitted and adjusted some of the fabric around his elbow. "The joint is slightly bunched there but otherwise, good. Real good."

"I'm glad you approve," Joshua lamented not-quite-sarcastically and looked at the items Daniel had just deposited. The largest object, long and rectangular with a green finish that had peeled at the corners was clearly a footlocker, an old one. On top of that was the oven dish and what looked to be a roll of tape. "And what is this?" He asked.

Daniel returned his attention to the items with a shrug. "Casserole and masking tape," he smiled, but then added, a little more sedately. "I actually don't know. Melatiah, that girl who came around yesterday? She said it was yours... Or, well, your family's, I think. Now it's yours, I guess."

Joshua leaned forward to get a better look at it. It was indeed a footlocker, one of the bigger sort, the kind that held heavy duty equipment. 

 _G-R-A-H-A-M_  had been stencilled into the top with some sharp-edged tool. Joshua narrowed his eyes in thought.

"I don't remember owning this," he admitted. It did not mean that it did not belong to him, per se -- Joshua's father had numerous possessions that he would likely not remember having seen in his home. The man had been an outlier in his time -- Joshua was a young child when the New Canaanites ventured into northern Ogden, raised outside the community before New Jerusalem's fall. An unclear memory he felt at odds with, and always had done. He recalls his father's inclination for preparedness with decidedly more fondness.

Daniel took one look at its dusty surface and grimaced. "I'll get a rag." He turned on his heels back into the kitchen and Joshua hummed under his breath in agreement. He came back with a dishcloth, and gave the whole top and sides a thorough cleaning before letting Joshua open it. Better to be safe than sorry, Joshua guesses. The wounds on his hands still yet had to close.  

It hit Joshua the second he got it open to find a SLCPD vest was that this was one of his father's supply caches. The Graham family, long ago, had a reputation for putting them to good use, back when they first left the Vault. His handgun was another such relic of the old times. No wonder he did not recognize it -- his father did not intend to properly outfit Joshua until he returned to New Canaan and, suffice to say, Joshua never had. It could have been stowed away for years.

There were other things in there, as was quickly discovered. Weapon manuals and military equipment; a few roadmaps, useful gear, modifications for the 45's, and numerous other odds and ends that would serve the average user well. Very well, in fact.

"Huh," Daniel scratched the side of his mouth, nails scraping against skin which was in want of a shave. "Happy birthday I guess."

From under his bandages, Joshua couldn't help but smile.

 


	6. Propitiation of Sins

## | PART ONE |  
CHAPTER SIX

## 

#### JOSHUA GRAHAM

     He dreams about the Legion.

 There's a painted lady cupped in his palms. Tribal adornments and a smeary paste of tears and dirt and blood, from where he tried clumsily to comfort her even an... even as... Caesar laughs from somewhere, high above, beyond -- too far away. Joshua's hands are burned, and there is blood congealing in the crevices of his fingers, between the grooves of his knuckles. Whose, he does not know. The air thrums with the Legion's war beat. 

 "Shit, you're a mess, you sad old asshole."

 His head snapped up. Very few of those in the Legion uttered English proficiency -- Caesar had been one of the only exceptions, born in the NCR, raised within it, fueled by resentful spite. The boy stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon is Legion born, Legion raised. He wears Joshua's modal structure, has his eyes, but they're angrier and younger and purer. 

 "Be silent," Joshua replies automatically and turns his head to regard the tribal again, but she is gone. Instead, Hoover Dam stretches beyond and Joshua squints against the sun, white-hot and oppressive and burning. The boy laughs, cocking an eyebrow. He gave Joshua a scathing, withering look.

 "This is all your fault, you know. All ya' had to do was protect some stupid, jumped-up, little brat, and could you do it? No."

 "That's not true. I... protected him..."  
  
 "Oh, hell yeah, bang up job on that. But did you protect the world _from_ him?" his eyes narrow to slits. "What about the rest of us?"

 _You made this Joshua didn't you know don't you remember that bitch whore Joshua don't you remember when you_ -

 Joshua does not take disobedience lightly. He runs at the boy, but his footing is caught and he falls over the edge of the Grand Canyon. His surroundings crash and shatter like glass, as fragile as rice-paper.

 He's stood by Joshua's head when he opens his eyes, flat on his back on the UT-36. "Why are you here?" Joshua asks, his skin burns even in slumber. 

 "Beats the hell out of me," the boy growls and Joshua tells himself to wake up, wake up! He itches to peel his skin off. The taint of what he's done, what Edward has done.

  _You did this you made this you caused this you_ -

 His surroundings become familiar again, blessedly reliable, when Joshua slammed into the doorway, his stomach rolling and bile rising in his throat. He has only just managed to cross the threshold of the bathroom when a crash reverberates from somewhere else in the house. Joshua remembers that Daniel is only in the next room across. Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, he feels bad -- but his mind is also running, flying and falling, too fast and too hard. He dry heaves against the wall, but there is nothing left down there. It's in a puddle next to _her_ , somewhere far, far away, yet not nearly far enough. A tribal encampment in Northwestern Arizona. Blood, more blood and fire and a burning camp, a dying woman. Eventually, he fumbled for a towel and collapsed over the side of the tub. A pair of bare forearms wrenched him up just before he collapsed in fully.

 "Easy," Daniel called through a voice thick with sleep, edged with fright. "Easy. You're safe. It's not-..." Real. "It's not here."

 Joshua nearly reared back and punched the boy in the face, but Daniel is hardly untrained. Hardly unprepared. Even as a high pitched noise of fear escaped through his clenched teeth, the boy easily deflected the punch and has dragged them both down onto the floor, against the wall. Almost too easily. The smooth porcelain tiles are offensively white and clean and cool against his scalded skin. Joshua's slowing heartbeat thrummed out a tainted lullaby as his muscles spasmed uncontrollably, shivering, shuddering as the world tilts on its axis; the ground falls out, his memory grieves for the nameless, furious youth that haunts his dreams and the woman who died for him -- not Joshua. Never Joshua. But him.

_You caused this you know isn't he brilliant Joshua isn't he just fucking fantastic look what you've wrought Joshua isn't it grand._

Caesar grins at him in his memories, cruel and utterly heartless but his hand is on Joshua's shoulder and it's friendly but oh by God isn't it just _cruel_. 

 "Do you want to talk?" Daniel asks, and Joshua realised that he was right there -- sat up against Joshua, shoulder to shoulder, feet planted against the base of the bathtub, dressed in nothing but a pair of soccer shorts. His hand reaches out to clasp his right knee, fingers kneading an old injury there, roughhousing when he was younger, which causes a very slight, shadow of a limp. "I- I mean, if you... If you want to, that is. I won't-"

 There is no one here but them. Joshua breathes out, lets the hot, dry air of the Wasteland beyond fade away into the cool still night, the dark edges of the bathroom. Let it all drown in Daniel's slightly-harder-than-normal breathing and the shadow of their respective beings.

 "No, I don't," Joshua rolls his head back against the wall and hisses out through his teeth.

 Daniel glanced at him. "You're okay. You know that, right? The Legion is on the other end of the Utah." At Joshua's expression, Daniel set his jaw and looked away. "Or... Okay, so it's not them, then. About you and..." He shifted so he wasn't resting on his tailbone. "You dreamed about Caesar?"

 "Somewhat... More about the others."

 Daniel looked off again, held the gaze of a smiling pre-war man on the back of a shampoo bottle. "About what you did...?"

 Joshua nodded. He wouldn't lie to Daniel, not now. "I regularly participated in individual conflicts, against particular people of significance, to weaken enemy morale. One such experience is more... painful to relive than the others."

 "But you repented, right?" Daniel snapped his head back and looked at Joshua's face, or what he could see of it. He took a moment to ask his next question. Joshua could see the doubt in his expression, the desire to know actively crashing against the need to conform, to stay right in the eyes of their respective leader, to be good. "What... happened?"

 "What caused me to leave, you mean?"

 The boy shrugged. "They never told us. Ma' doesn't know, nobody really does, 'sept maybe Mordecai, and he wouldn't tell me even if I dared to ask."

 That, at least, Joshua was already very well aware of. He sighed, long and deep. "I... left at first. You know how that is. We're young, when we first leave," he deliberately gives Daniel a look. "Some of us end up leaving younger than others."

 Daniel squirmed. "Right."

 "I was much of the same. I was eager, perhaps too much so, and I wasn't prepared for the lure of corruption that was beyond. I was foolish. Thought our people to be weak, too uncertain -- I went out, confident in myself, ready to make change, and I fell at the first hurdle." He breathed in again. Then he breathed out. In. Out, in. Until his heartbeat was no longer pounding in his ears. "I fell and it was a long, perilous journey down until the day Caesar had me thrown from the Grand Canyon. And while I am of the belief that the man at that time no longer exists, I still... remember."

 The boy looked at him solemnly, but there was a glint of confusion in his eyes. 

 "In the truest sense, Daniel, he is dead," Joshua explained. "The Malpais Legate died a puppet of the Legion and the false God Caesar." The boy needed to know the truth. The damned and damning truth. "There once was a child who took on the narrow path to serve in the light of the Lord. He was talented, a promising translator, very skilled with our weaponry, respected by his peers -- and he let pride consume him, and he failed. The temptation of the Wasteland was too much. He killed in the name of a false prophet, oftentimes willfully, and it wasn't until... It wasn't until he met his end that he saw the error of his doings."

 "How could you do it?" Daniel asked, voice tight and quiet, and by God, Joshua thought, how there was no missing the stark condemnation in those words. Even if the boy would never dare say so, not on purpose. Never on purpose. 

 "I am a weapon," Joshua declared. "Like our chosen hallmark, the armaments we bear into battle, I am much of the same. It is... what I am good at, if nothing else. I did terrible things when I was used by the wrong man, but now the Lord directs me." He breathed out. "I have been brought back, and I intend to hold myself to this, make up for what discord Caesar has sown, even if I may never find redemption. I have to try. Even if I never forget, and I pray that I never do."

 "Caesar made you do all that. Kill all those people. Our people. And you did it."

 "I did."

 There was a long silence after that. Joshua could not tell if Daniel was disgusted, or horrified, or disillusioned or perhaps a virulent mixture of all three. The boy was a product of his people. The New Canaanites had suffered on account of the Legion, of the Malpais Legate's actions, often grievously, to great extent and terrible pain. Daniel's aversion to this, all of this, was as inborn as it was personal. And here was Joshua, the very man, even if reborn, who was the root of such evil. Daniel had every right to be disgusted, to be angry.

 But he wasn't any of these things when he eventually spoke. 

 He folded his arms over his sternum and relaxed his head against Joshua's shoulder. "I'm so sorry." He said, with gentle and honest sincerity.

 And Joshua knew that the Lord had given him a blessing he truly did not deserve. 

 

 


End file.
